


The Hope of Fen'Harel

by youworeblue



Series: Bloodied and Broken [3]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: "SPARE YOU MY BURDEN" JFC, F/M, HOPE IS A CHOICE BUT IT'S ALSO A BURDEN, Trespasser ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-04
Updated: 2021-01-04
Packaged: 2021-03-14 11:53:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28545147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youworeblue/pseuds/youworeblue
Summary: “After everything I’ve been through, you would putthisonme?”Her breath tore viciously through her teeth as she swallowed a sob. “I was the hope of Thedas, and the moment that stopped, theyleft.Youleft. When will I have saved the world enough times that I will be worthstayingfor?”-Young!Timeline Ixchel Lavellan's Trespasser ending.
Relationships: Female Inquisitor/Solas (Dragon Age), Female Lavellan/Solas, Fen'Harel | Solas/Female Lavellan, Lavellan & Solas
Series: Bloodied and Broken [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1969189
Comments: 7
Kudos: 12





	The Hope of Fen'Harel

**Author's Note:**

> Ixchel is no longer the scared sixteen-year-old girl who fell out of the Fade. For years, she walked alongside a living god. She overturned centuries of understood history and religion. She earned her vallaslin and saved the world.
> 
> It's been two years since she stopped Corypheus at last--two years since every one of her dearest friends slowly began to trickle away to the farthest corners of Thedas to continue being the heroes she inspired them to be.
> 
> The woman who steps through the eluvian and greets Fen'Harel is tired, and she's tired of being the hope of Thedas.

Ixchel had finally removed her gauntlet, hoping that would ease some of the pain of the anchor, and she found that its green tendrils of terrible Fade magic had entirely consumed her hand. As she pushed up her sleeve, the ringing in her ears and the hum of the Anchor in her arm grew all-encompassing, blocking out everything except for the pulsing pain that ran through her arm, into her shoulder, and into her heart.

Her hands—one stained green with the Fade, one stained red with Banrea’s blood—shook as she picked up _Adhleadanal_.

Without waiting for her companions, she took off for the eluvian at a run.

She leaped out of the portal and found herself in the midst of a battle. A battle, frozen in time and stone. She gasped at the fright of it, and she did not loosen her grip on her axe as she slowly made her way through the field of petrified Qunari. Her breath sucked raggedly through her teeth as the Anchor nearly overwhelmed her again, but then—she heard his voice.

“Your forces have failed,” he said, his voice gentle and full of pity. “Leave now, and tell the Qunari to trouble me no further.”

Ixchel stumbled in a shallow pool of pond flowers, and then she surged forward to crest the rise. “Solas!” she cried in warning as the Viddasala raised her javelin.

He did not turn, but she felt the pulse of magic as it caught the Viddasala and turned her, too, to stone.

Solas still did not turn as Ixchel made her way past the statue and approached him. It was Solas, but he held himself like she had never seen him. Everything about him was golden, regal, imposing; his broad shoulders were adorned with plates of armor and a thick wolf pelt, and he stood taller and straighter than ever. He was dressed like an ancient Sentinel, but the power that permeated the air around him was that of a god.

“Solas—” she said again, but before she could finish, the Anchor once again tried to tear her arm from her body and her heart with it. She did not cry out, determined not to let him see her reduced to such a state, but she dropped to one knee despite herself as she clutched the mutinous hand to her chest.

Another pulse of magic, and the Anchor winked out, dormant.

Ixchel blinked away tears of pain and found Solas standing before her. He did not reach for her to help her stand. She gritted her teeth and tried to rise to her feet without staggering.

The look on his face alone stole what little breath she had left.

“That should give us more time,” he said.

“You—the Anchor.” She swallowed. “It was yours. The orb was yours all along.”

Solas’s brows drew together in a look of such guilt and pain it was as though he had killed her already. Perhaps he had. “What was that old Dalish curse?” His voice shook, and he could not hold her gaze for more than a moment. “‘May the Dread Wolf take you’? _Ir abelas.”_

They looked down at her hand. “No,” she said bitterly. “You could have dealt with the Qunari on your own—you wanted me here. To take it before…”

He sucked in a bitter breath. “I knew I had not underestimated you, Ixchel. Yes. Drawing you here gave me the chance to save you…at least, for now.”

Ixchel summoned all her resolve to raise her head to look at him again. “I saw the stories—the mosaics, the memories… Why… I knew who you were years ago and... Why didn’t you tell me any of this? You didn’t trust me, after all this time?”

The terrible, agonized look on Solas’s face only intensified. “I hoped to spare you the burden I carry.” He turned from her and walked to the edge of the path that overlooked the grand Elvhen spires of the refuge. Ixchel followed him, afraid to lose him now.

“What you saw was but another story, written in desperation to give me more credit than I ever deserved. I sought to set my people free from slavery to would-be gods. I broke the chains of all who wished to join me.” He nodded to himself slowly. “The false gods called me Fen’Harel, and when they finally went too far… I formed the Veil and banished them forever.” He gestured in her direction; the Anchor glowed but did not pulse. “Thus I freed the Elvhen and, in doing so, destroyed their world.”

Ixchel, weary as she was, was not so rocked by this revelation for its shock. It was the grief, the pain in his voice, that tore at her heart. “You love the Fade,” she whispered. “And you hid it all away?”

He turned back to her, and she wondered if this was the terrible burden he spoke of. The agony in his voice was barely visible on his face; he wore the placid, if weary mask of the hedge mage she had grown so close to. “Had I not created the Veil…the Evanuris would have destroyed the entire world.”

Again, his gaze slid away. She took a step closer. “You said that creating the _Veil_ destroyed the world of the Elvhen. So which is it?”

“You saw the remains of Vir Dirthara. The library was intrinsically tied to the Fade, and the Veil destroyed it. There were countless other marvels, all dependent on the presence of the Fade, all destroyed.” He spoke of it as if he spoke of the death of a loved one, and her heart ached for him, for his loss. “Your legends are half-right. We were immortal. It was not the arrival of humans that caused us to begin aging. It was me.”

He looked back out over the ruins, as though they were the ruins of his entire people, of an entire world. “The Veil took everything from the elves…even themselves. But every alternative was worse.”

“What is your burden, Solas?” she pressed. “Knowledge of what we once were?”

Solas clasped his hands behind his back again—a soldier, facing an adversary that was not her, and was not hers. He turned and began making his way to the massive eluvian at the end of the path. “Hope,” he said grimly over his shoulder. “My people fell for what I did to strike the Evanuris down, but still some hope remains for restoration. I will save the Elven people, even if it means _this_ world must die.”

Ixchel almost stumbled. “Why? At your hands, or because of the Evanuris would be freed?”

A breath escaped him then—the sound of his smile. “You have always shown a thoughtfulness I respected. It would be too easy to tell you too much.”

“Why not?” Ixchel asked, agonized. Her mind raced—was he afraid that she would stop him? “You are not Corypheus. You are not some monster. I _know_ you, Solas. I would help you. I _want_ to— _ma ghilana_. Please.”

The mage’s shoulders grew tense. He bowed his head. “No. It is not only the Evanuris. The return of my people means the end of yours.”

“I would give my life to make a better world,” she insisted.

“Would you give the life of every friend you have ever known?” There was a sudden edge to his voice—dark curiosity that was both a threat and a test. “There is no glory here, only a price that I alone will pay, Ixchel.”

He turned back to her, and his face had grown harder. Rage and grief filled her in that moment like she had never known before. She felt that he had judged her for the very loyalty and love he had praised her for a moment before. Had he not seen what she was willing to sacrifice, as the Inquisitor? Did he doubt her resolve, or her honor, or her intentions? Did he _really_ think that she was motivated by _glory?_

They glared at each other, and the magic around Solas crackled with agitation.

“You should be more concerned about the Inquisition,” he said at last. _“Your_ Inquisition. In stopping the Dragon’s Breath, you have prevented an invasion by Qunari forces. With luck, they will return their focus to Tevinter. That will give you a few years of relative peace.”

“What for?” Her eyes burned. What was left of her Inquisition? What was she meant to do with _peace?_ Did he know all that she had lost in the last two years? The empty castle, the political turmoil, all the people who demanded so much of her and resented everything she had done to meet their needs.

He had left her. He could not know.

“When Corypheus did not die unlocking my orb, and I saw the threat he was, I likewise saw the Inquisition as the best hope for the world,” Solas said. “I _still_ believe that, Ixchel. You have shown me that there is value in this world, and there are yet many other threats to it. If they must die, I would rather they die in comfort.”

She shook her head furiously, raised a hand to her eyes, but her voice had failed her. She gritted her teeth—and failed to catch the rattling sob in her throat.

Solas took a step toward her. Stopped.

Caught himself.

Ixchel looked up at him through her splayed fingers and stared in disbelief. “What comfort do you think _I_ will find?” she demanded.

His jaw tensed. “Happiness does not come idly, Ixchel. Nor security. You had never had a home before. You do not deserve to be alone, so I gave you Skyhold. And look what you have done with it: you grew a family, built a network of friends that spans the length of Thedas. Of course…you created a powerful organization, and now it suffers the inevitable fate of such…betrayal and corruption.” He paused, exhaled sharply. “Take your friend, the Iron Bull. Tell me, where is he?”

Ixchel lashed out with her hand immediately, and she succeeded in grabbing hold of the wolf pelt around his shoulder. Her hand, stained with the blood of her own wolf, shook as she anchored him in place.

“How _dare_ you!” she spat. “After everything I’ve been through, you would put this on me?” Her breath tore viciously through her teeth as she swallowed a sob. “I was the hope of Thedas, and the moment that stopped, they _left. You_ left. How am I supposed to work for happiness when _every_ time I trust someone, love someone, they leave?”

Her eyes burned as she glared up at him, and she took only the barest pleasure at the pain that flashed across his face.

“There is much to this world that is worthy of you,” he said. He raised a hand to cover her own against his chest. “Far worthier than I. You may yet find some of it, while time remains.”

He pried her hand away from him, and the look in his eye—the unspoken truth—drew her tears from her at last.

“So you tell me the world must end to save your people, and you judge me for not wanting to fight you?” she asked bitterly. “You hope to spare me your fucking burden, only to place the burden of the world’s end on my shoulders once again?” Her tears spilled from her chin, left streaks in the blood and the ash on her cheeks. “When will I have saved the world enough times that I will be worth _staying_ for?”

The words caused him as much pain as if she had stabbed him in the heart. His lip trembled almost imperceptibly as he gazed into her eyes—and she knew he meant it to be the for the last time.

“You _loved_ me and that wasn’t enough!” she cried. “How am I _ever_ supposed to be enough?! For anyone?”

 _“Ixchel…_ ” He shook his head slowly, grieving the ghost in front of him already. _“Ir abelas, vhenan.”_

Solas bent over their joined hands, and he pressed his lips to hers. He was gentle, almost hesitant, but when she returned the kiss something in him broke. The mage-god she had befriended, that she had fought alongside, that she had come to love after so many years, kissed her ardently, desperately, like a man facing death in the next moment. She responded in kind, because she knew that was true.

His skin tingled with magic; his breath was cool and strange, and she wondered if this was what divinity tasted like.

And then he pulled away. His eyes shone, not with tears but with a power that she did not recognize; she was not afraid.

She held his gaze the same way she had held the gazes of the Chancellor, Corypheus, nobles and Chevaliers—everyone who had made her their rival without her permission, everyone who had demanded she rise above their low standards and expectations, everyone who had forced her to be ever more the hero in the face of their assumed villainy.

She held his gaze and dared him to assign her the same fate.

Solas swallowed. He took her arm that was being torn apart by the Anchor, and his gauntleted hands pressed soothingly against the tormented flesh.

“I will never forget you.”


End file.
